


Trust Fall

by Delcat



Series: The Skies We're Under [12]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Deceitful Consent, Dominance, Drug Use, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gags, Gratuitous Coat-Bundling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mindfuck, Needles, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stuttering, Submission, disturbing mental imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delcat/pseuds/Delcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maxwell has his own ways of getting Wilson over his fears.  Sometimes, though, there’s reason to be afraid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Fall

——

_It was sweet, like lead paint is sweet_  
_But the aftereffects left me paralyzed_  
_I just stare with my one glass eye_  
_Hoping that you won’t be back again_  
_—They Might Be Giants, Cyclops Rock_

——

There was writing on the sheets again.  
  
Wilson stared blearily at the scrawled text and crude diagrams, touching the back of his head absently.  It was the fourth day in a row now.  This was getting to be a problem.  
  
The first time it had happened, he had assumed he had lost time.  It didn’t happen as often now that he had the pills sorted out, but once in a while a few hours would disappear, sometimes more.  He had woken up once in his cage with Maxwell not speaking to him, and when he let him out the mirrors were gone from the house and the moon was at least two days out of joint.  He didn’t ask what had happened.  He didn’t want to know.  He didn’t want to think about it.  Getting confused and mistaking his bed for one of the endless sheets of papyrus he had scattered around the lab was so absurd in comparison as to be almost funny.  
  
Until he had gone to wash the stains and they weren’t there anymore.  
  
Then it was something different entirely.  
  
The writing showed up infrequently at first, but it didn’t take long to test both hypotheses and find the conclusions accurate: The markings were, in fact, the same blueprints the little girl in his dreams drew on the wall with one finger, and they did, in fact, only disappear once he took his medicine.  
  
Now it was every night, and as Wilson made a futile attempt to smear the ink with his thumb, he wished fervently to be left alone.  
  
After weeks of living on pins and needles, waiting for punishment for something he couldn’t understand, much less control, he had tempted fate and enticed Maxwell into bed with the writing still there.  The giddy relief when he had looked at it and not _seen_ it…  
  
He allowed himself a moment from his depression to remember, sparing himself a lopsided smile.  His master rarely gave direct praise, and he had made an offhanded comment at the time about the fresh air doing Wilson some good, but he had obviously been impressed.  
  
He could keep it that way.  He could ignore his nightmares.  The instructions for doors the little girl drew for him, the awful barbed throne the dead man showed him, the lies about the machines the bird doctor whispered in his ear—it was never day here, but nights ended, somehow, and he could live with that.  He could keep it the same.  
  
So he had no reason to worry when the door opened, until the lights all went off at once.  
  
The instinct to run was immediate—his cane, _why couldn’t he find his cane_ —  
  
—and then he was being pushed down firmly by both arms, Maxwell straddling him.  It was usually a calming pressure, but there was something off about the angle of his body, and his touch lacked its usual heat.  It almost lacked any feeling at all.  
  
"—Maxwell?"  
  
"Shhh.  I’m right here."  
  
His lips brushed Wilson’s ear, and he shivered, but it wasn’t enough.  
  
"M-Maxwell, the lights…y-you know I’m…"  
  
"Afraid of the dark?"  
  
If his tone had been taunting, it might have been all right, but it was…intensely interested.  Too much so on both fronts.  They had never discussed it, but why would they have needed to?  Wilson had good _reason_ to be afraid of the dark.  He didn’t know what happened when his fire burned out, and he suspected Maxwell didn’t either, but they both knew it wasn’t a hallucination.  He had…  
  
"Don’t fret, precious." One hand traced down his bare chest, and it was soothing, just slightly. "You don’t trust me to keep my plaything safe?"  
  
A test.  He could handle that, or try.  It wouldn’t be the first time his limits had been pressed, and Maxwell…Wilson had to admit he knew what he was doing.  The trials were always a surprise, usually humiliating, and often painful in a way he could only just handle, but they put him back together in ways he only barely understood.  They purged things.  And when they didn’t, when he failed, there was still reward.  When his efforts to cure Wilson’s stutter had been too much, he had been the one to stop it when Wilson wanted to push too far, had diffidently pushed aside his apologies and stopped his frustrated sobbing with even words and an even hand, and had laid with him through the night afterward.  
  
He knew what he was doing.  He was making him stronger.  He wouldn’t let him get hurt.  
  
All the same…  
  
Wilson pushed away traitorous thoughts and closed his eyes.  If he pretended it was just the dark behind his eyes—  
  
"Oh, no, darling.  Open.  Both of them.  Look at me."  
  
Wilson whimpered at the shameful exposure of his eyepatch being yanked off.  Of _course_ Maxwell could see in the dark. Why would he have thought different?  At least one of them could.  He had died in the dark.  He had died—  
  
” _Open._   Your eyes.”  
  
He obeyed reluctantly and jerked anxiously as Maxwell laid a hand on his throat.  That, at least, was a relief—should have been a relief—should have—  
  
_Where were his gloves?_  
  
It was bare skin on his neck, not leather, and it was…wrong.  There was too much wrong.  Maxwell was already starting to press into him, and _that_ was wrong, his cock was slick enough for it but he _never_ fucked him straight, he always teased him with one hand first, or made Wilson do it himself, made him _need_ it, and it was humiliating and helpless but it was _right_ —  
  
"M-Maxwell—you’re h-hurting me, please—"  
  
It wasn’t a truth, or a whole one, but it made things stop.  It was the right combination of words, it always made things stop when he needed them to—  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Maxwell began thrusting into him, and Wilson stopped.  
  
It didn’t hurt.  It didn’t feel like anything.  Nightmares didn’t, always.  He could sense his body performing the way it was trained to, heard himself gasping and moaning and keening as his master bit and choked and teased, as he did everything right except _being_.  The shell making love to him was cold, and he didn’t want it to stop, but he wanted it to be over.  There was pleasure, intense enough to hurt, but he couldn’t reach it from where he was, and he didn’t realize that he had come or that Maxwell was coming until a sickly tearing in the flesh of his bad arm brought him out of his shock, slammed him back into reality— _this was reality_ —  
  
He started screaming all at once, clutching the icy pain where Maxwell had— _what had Maxwell done_ —  
  
"Disgusting."  
  
Before he could start to form his lover’s name, the lights flicked on, blinding him.  
  
He was alone in the room, and when he lifted his trembling hand from the place where his forearm was bleeding, there were deep claw marks underneath.  
  
——  
  
The water was already deep pink, and Wilson still had no idea what to do.  
  
He had washed the sweat and semen off his body before actually filling the bath, but he didn’t have the nerve to put the wound directly under the tap.  He had submerged entirely instead, letting the heat soothe his chilled skin at the same time that it pulled bright agony from his arm, staying under as long as he could stand it.  It wasn’t hell—infection would be hell, sickness would be hell—but it was close, and he’d had to clean it in bursts, taking time between to steel himself.  
  
Now he was staring dumbly at the needle and thread he’d brought in with him—something he couldn’t use, not didn’t want to use but _couldn’t_ use.  Maxwell had pushed him past his fear before by making him stitch his own wounds, and he’d understood why the first time he’d slipped chopping wood.  But it was only possible with his dominant hand, which was too close to the gashes, which was starting to go numb, which was…  
  
_Why would he do this?_  
  
This wasn’t a test.  This wasn’t…anything.  It was nonsense.  
  
Maybe he was ready for Wilson to die.  
  
He hadn’t thought it was going to happen, but maybe he was just ready for Wilson to die.  
  
Maybe that was the last test.  
  
It was going to take a long time, even like this.  What was left of his scientific mind told him that.  
  
He wondered if Maxwell was going to watch.  
  
It wouldn’t be so bad like that, at least.  
  
He decided as the door clicked open that he would beg him to, if he had to.  It wouldn’t be a bad way to—  
  
” _What the hell did you do to yourself?_ ”  
  
Whether it was the rare panic in his master’s voice or the sound of his boots on the tile as he rushed over or the gloved hand grabbing his wrist, he wasn’t sure, but the shell surrounding Wilson’s mind broke.  The world—the world wasn’t right, not at all, but it was wrong for _both_ of them, and the fear in Maxwell’s eyes was a bright and terrifying relief.  
  
"M—Maxwell?"  
  
"I asked you a— _Jesus_ , Wilson— _what happened?_ " Maxwell turned his arm, lifting it to slow the bleeding, and Wilson felt briefly stupid for not thinking to try that before realizing what he was saying.  He didn’t know.  He really didn’t…  
  
"I…I don’t r-r-remember."  
  
It was a fair response at this point, and one Maxwell was used to.  He cursed under his breath and shrugged off his coat. “Open your mouth.  Now.”  
  
He obeyed thoughtlessly, and as Maxwell folded Wilson’s belt over and put it between his teeth, he bit down, understanding.  His…belt, he could have made a tourniquet.  Where had his mind gone?  Something had…why had he wanted to _die?_  
  
He lost the thought as Maxwell ran hot water over the needle and thread.  He didn’t want to die now, but some fears were worse than others, and he couldn’t keep the sweat from breaking out on his brow, the trembling of his frame from sending tiny ripples through the water.  
  
"Don’t look." Maxwell turned Wilson’s head with one hand, laid it on his neck. "Don’t look, sweetheart.  Gonna get you fixed up.  Bite."  
  
The needle went in, and Wilson bit hard into the leather, focusing on the clenching of his jaw to hold back sick panic.  He stared intently at a crack in the marble, fighting the nausea as Maxwell continued murmuring to him softly.  His voice was a salve, was fresh air to his clouded mind, but deep in that cloud, it was a tightening hook of “wrong”.  
  
Maxwell was scared.  
  
He was never scared.  
  
And this wasn’t what he was scared of.  
  
"There.  Done.  It’s over, pal."  
  
Wilson looked down at his arm, swallowing back tears, and let Maxwell take the gag from his mouth.  
  
"Good boy."  
  
The words broke the fear, left exhaustion in its wake.  Wilson pressed his face against Maxwell’s shoulder with a small, lost sound.  
  
Maxwell let him rest, stroking his hair, then pulled back. “Stay here.  Stitches and no bandages?  For fuck’s sake, kid, what were you thinking?”  
  
He didn’t know, and he didn’t have the words to say so, and shrugging hurt too much.  He stayed silent as Maxwell got the bandages from the cabinet and began wrapping the wound.  
  
"You didn’t do this to yourself."  
  
It wasn’t a question, but Wilson shook his head anyway.  
  
"Animals?"  
  
Wilson didn’t look up.  
  
"…dogs?"  
  
Wilson shut his eyes tightly.  He couldn’t lie, but he could try to believe.  If it had to be hounds, let it be hounds.  It hurt less to think about, and he hated that that could be possible.  
  
"Fuck.  There shouldn’t be any…" Maxwell was quiet for a moment, tying off the bandage. "…I’ll take care of it.  Stay inside until this heals and they’ll be gone."  
  
He nodded, tried a couple of times before managing to speak.  “Th…thank y-y-y-you.”  
  
"Shhh." Maxwell turned Wilson’s arm gently, inspecting his work. "There.  Good as new."  
  
Wilson risked looking up, then stretching carefully, wincing a little as the stitches tightened.  It hurt, but it felt…safe.  It always felt safe after Maxwell patched him up, even if it hadn’t been dangerous to begin with.  It felt contained, somehow, even.  It put the world back under control.  
  
"Have you been taking your pills?"  
  
He tried a few more words this time. “I…yes, M-Maxwell.  …I-I’m sure.”  There had been times when he hadn’t been sure, and those were bad times, but he knew.  He knew from the writing, knew from his scars leaving him alone.  Whatever had happened, he had been lucid for it.  
  
Should have been lucid for it.  
  
"Stay sure.  Now get over here."  
  
Wilson jerked in shock as Maxwell picked him up and almost protested as he wrapped his coat around him, but quieted himself under his master’s withering glare.  
  
"You’re not walking like this.  You can wash it later."  
  
He sighed helplessly, breathing in the scent of smoke—something that hadn’t been there when…when Maxwell had…  
  
Not Maxwell.  
  
Something else.  
  
Something he’d seen before, faintly, briefly, in touches, in dreams.  
  
Something waiting behind a throne made of hooks and chains.  
  
"…Maxwell?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"…n-not my room.  Please."  
  
Maxwell furrowed his brow. “…you sure about that?”  
  
Wilson nodded fervently, eyes closed.  
  
"…whatever, kid."  
  
He didn’t have to think in the cage.  He didn’t have to dream.  
  
Stay inside until it healed.  
  
Then back to his bed to wait for his instructions.  
  
He had work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Filling in some lost time.


End file.
